


Draco Malfoy, Painter

by Zakaira



Series: Draco Malfoy, Painter [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-14 00:46:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7992385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zakaira/pseuds/Zakaira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Draco starts releasing paintings he has made of Harry Potter over the years. The paintings led to a revelation regarding something that happened in sixth year that Draco has kept secret. Upon learning the truth, Harry sets out to make up for his mistake and in the process realizes that he was meant to be with Draco all along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Harry’s POV:

            “Oh good, Harry, Hermione, Ron! You came!” Kingsley Shacklebolt greeted us as we arrived in the empty auditorium. It was only half decorated for the morrow’s gathering.

            Hermione, Ron, and I returned the greeting. Hermione was the first to glance at the covered canvases in the room—the point of this meeting—but then Ron saw too, and jerked his chin in that direction. I noticed then and turned to see two ridiculously large rectangles covered in white sheets on top of easels.

            I let out a groan of dismay. Why did they have to be so big? Why not a little tiny one that no one would be able to see? And why were there two?

            “Ah yes; the heart of the matter,” Kingsley started. “I know we agreed to go with Florian Mayweather for your portrait, Harry—he is quite good and his work is tasteful and respectful and I would have been quite willing to display it at the ceremony, if I didn’t receive this second one. It’s genius. You have to see it. Next to it, every other portrait looks like the scribbles of a child. Come.” Kingsley gestured towards one of the canvases; the smaller of the two.

            “It’s too big…” I groused.

            “Now Harry, it’s smaller than the one we ordered. We should see it,” Hermione replied, a hand on my arm in a supportive gesture.

            Ron stood behind us, silent, but nodding.

            Then Kingsley pulled off the white covering in one big dramatic flourish and we all gasped. It was me, exactly; the representation so perfect that I felt naked. Every last nuance that was me was captured and imbibed into this work, leaving me raw and bare.

            “No!” I exclaimed, covering my face with my hands in shame, because I couldn’t bear to look another moment at myself.

            At the same moment, Hermione whispered, “It’s magnificent.”

            Ron muttered, “Blimey. I can’t believe it.”

            “We have to use it,” Hermione said. “It’s perfection. None of that hero-worshipping biased drivel we were afraid of.”

            “No, no, no, no, no. We’re not using this one,” I objected, feeling embarrassed and vulnerable.

            “Why not, Harry?” Hermione asked.

            “Yeah, Harry, why? What’s wrong with it?” Ron asked.

            “I know we said we’d use Mayweather, but this one is so much better,” Kingsley said.

            I lowered my hand, looked at it again, and got flustered at how the artist had bared every facet of me to the world. “Because I’m naked, that’s why!” I exclaimed.

            “No, you’re not naked, Harry. You’re wearing clothes. In all of them,” Ron replied.

            Hermione gaped at me for a second, then looked again at the painting, watching the entire horrible cycle that was my life.

            This wasn’t an ordinary painting. It was painted, as evidenced by the brushstrokes in the thick colorful oils. But it was a series of snapshots of over a dozen portraits, instead of the typical one. Instead of the one nearly sentient likeness that was expected, it flashed through a number of images of me, starting at the age of eleven and progressing through to after the war. Each one played a thirty-second loop that was so true to life that it could have been a video capture; each one with my thoughts and emotions etched on my face and in my movements; each a pivotal moment in my life.

            The first portrait was of me on my Nimbus catching the snitch in my mouth. The snitch flew in and eleven-year-old me, scrawny and awkward as ever I was, practically retched it back out. Then a smile lit up my face, transforming it. The second was me walking into the Forbidden Forest for detention with Hagrid, Hermione, Neville Weasley, Draco Malfoy, and Fang, to look for injured unicorns. I looked brave and determined. Then there was me talking to that snake second year during dueling practice, followed by boarding the train home after second year, sad and melancholy over my impending return to the Dursleys. From third year, there was me flying Buckbeak and then me falling off of my broom during a Dementor attack. Fourth year was represented by the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, with me against that dragon, and with a very unflattering, but startlingly accurate rendition of me dancing horribly with Parvati during the Yule ball. In the next, during my Dumbledore’s Army days, I looked good; strong, mature, and a leader. But then there was a moment of grief, obviously in the days after Sirius’ death. Sixth year was represented only by Draco Malfoy’s near death in the girl’s bathroom, double length to show the horror as realization dawned on my face. From the war, there was our escape from Malfoy Manor and then the aftermath of the final battle, as I sat in the Great Hall, trying to process everything that had just happened. Then there was the me from the trials, proclaiming guilt or innocence of the accuseds. The last one was me returning the Hawthorn wand to Draco Malfoy.

            The look on Malfoy’s face was more telling than I remembered and very captivating. I didn’t want to see myself laid bare, but I couldn’t look away from it when it was Malfoy with that wand. It was a hopeful look. It was a look that said that even though life as he knew it had ended, things might just turn out alright after all. It was a look of closure and of relief, capturing the essence of all that was good in the world in the post-war era. It was a look I hadn’t seen, my back turned as I walked away.

            “You are dressed in all of them, Harry…” Hermione trailed off. “But do you mean your face?”

            “Yes!” I answered.

            “Harry, this one is really so much better than the other. I know we picked Mayweather because his initial piece showed more of the real you and less of the caricature of a hero that everyone else was doing, but next to this one, Mayweather’s looks like a caricature of a hero,” Kingsley put in.

            “Can we see the other one?” Ron asked.

            “Yes, I think we need to see what Mayweather did,” Hermione said.

            “Very well,” Kingsley said. He stepped over to the other canvas and unveiled it.

            It wasn’t me. It was a fantasy of me as I cast the Expelliarmus that defeated Voldemort. It was better looking than I was, taller, and broader across the chest. The hair was styled the way it was that one time everyone insisted I let a professional do it. The beaming facial expression had nothing to do with the moment or my feelings in the moment. Next to the other, it looked like a giant knockoff. It was everything I had said I didn’t want in my portrait; although, that probably had a lot to do with perspective. Next to the one that showed me as I was, it was clear that this one didn’t capture me. But next to the others that had been submitted for pre-approval, this had seemed the best of the bunch, because the others had been even worse.

            I frowned at Mayweather’s painting. On the one hand, it obviously didn’t compare with the other painting. On the other hand, this one didn’t expose me for all that I was. This one didn’t put my whole life’s story out there for everyone to see. This one let me keep my secrets.

            “I don’t know…maybe we should go with this one,” I said, unsure what to do, but preferring the anonymity afforded me by Mayweather’s.

            “Harry, mate, this one’s awful. Even I can see that,” Ron said.

            “It’s like having a Picasso or a Rembrandt or a Van Gogh next to some no-name hack,” Kingsley said.

            “The other one has the artistic merit and really captures you, Harry,” Hermione agreed, turning back to the first painting.

            We all turned too.

            I shut my eyes against the truth, the snippet of the bathroom on display. “But I can’t let everyone see that!” I protested.

            “How did they get that one of you almost killing Malfoy? I wasn’t even there for that. Snape was, but he’s dead,” Ron said.

            “Snape wasn’t there until that moment was over,” I put in. It had been just me, Malfoy, and Myrtle.

            “Where did this painting come from, Kingsley?” Hermione asked.

            “It was sent in as a volunteer piece. It came with a note,” Kingsley said, pulling a short scroll out of his pocket and holding it out.

            Hermione moved to take it, but I grabbed it first.

 

* * *

 

 

Dear Minister for Magic Shacklebolt,

            I read of your plans to unveil a portrait of Auror Potter in the Daily Prophet. I happen to have my own collection of portraits I have painted of Potter over the years, starting with one I did when we were eleven. Since I have hefty reparations to pay, I have decided to sell reprints of my paintings. As advertisement for my work, I have put together this collage. I hope you will deem it worthy to show along with the one you have commissioned during the gala to commemorate the end of the war and honor all of the heroes, living and dead.

 

-Sincerely, Draco Malfoy

 

* * *

 

 

            “What?” I asked in disbelief, taking in the name at the bottom.

            Hermione, reading over my shoulder, asked, “Draco Malfoy?”

            “Let me see,” Ron said, taking the note out of my hands. “I can’t believe the nerve of that git!”

            “I can’t believe he painted all of these,” Hermione said.

            “He’s trying to make money off of Harry to repay his debts! He’s supposed to be handing over the galleons in his family vault!” Ron proclaimed.

            “But he saw Harry. He painted Harry as he is, not how everyone sees him. I can’t believe they aren’t tinted to show Malfoy’s perception of him,” Hermione said.

            “He must’ve painted them knowing they would never sell if he showed Harry in a bad light. But he can’t be allowed to profit off of Harry,” Ron insisted.

            “He _did_ paint me in a bad light. Those are some of my worst days!” I proclaimed. The bathroom, the Dementors, Sirius’ death, the Yule ball, and after the final battle; all bad days.

            “But those images are exactly how you looked on those days; they’re not biased to make you look one way or another. They are just you,” Hermione replied.

            “I don’t like it,” I admitted.

            “We should confiscate all of Malfoy’s paintings of Harry,” Ron said.

            “We have no right to seize his artwork. It’s his and he is free to sell it to repay his debts, if that is what he wants to do. The court ordered reparations in galleons, not paintings,” Kingsley reasoned.

            “It’s a masterpiece. I didn’t know he could paint like this, but it doesn’t matter who he is or what he’s done: he’s created a work of art deserving of praise; multiple works of art, by the sound of this letter. If he is this talented, then the work should be allowed to stand on its own. Forget about who made it. Judge it for its beauty and the truth it shows. It’s better than the best. It makes the one we thought was the best look cheap and false in comparison. It deserves to be the one we use. The best painting should be the one we put on display. Any other decision is unfair,” Hermione reasoned.

            “I don’t know…I don’t like it; especially not the bathroom,” I insisted.

            “He’s the one dying in it; you’d think he wouldn’t want to share that,” Ron said.

            “It is his death, not yours. He is the one with the right to privacy,” Kingsley said.

            “Think about it, Harry: this is his way of owning up to what he did. He’s not just showing you as you are, he is showing himself as he is too. It’s a confession,” Hermione said.

            “What’s he confessing to? He’s not the one killing me,” I replied.

            “Weakness. He nearly died,” Hermione answered.

            “That’s a big deal, for his sort,” Ron admitted.

            “It doesn’t exactly paint him in a good light. Why in the forest, you can see nothing but fear on his face,” Kingsley put in.

            “That’s right: it’s his journey too. He shows himself at eleven and himself now. The bathroom is his changing point in between, just as it is yours, Harry,” Hermione said.

            “He goes from a coward, to weak, to getting his wand back at the end there. Whatever that’s supposed to mean,” Ron said.

            “It’s hope. It shows that there is hope to mend the rift between our two sides. It’s brilliant!” Hermione proclaimed.

            “I’ve never seen something like it. It belongs with the paintings in our wizarding museum,” Kingsley said.

            “Yeah, but…” I said, getting worn down.

            “Harry, you yourself said that Draco Malfoy needs to be given another a chance. A real chance this time. If he can paint like this, then he can get past all of this and move on. He can have a life and contribute masterpieces on canvas to our society. We need paintings like this one, Harry,” Hermione insisted.

            “Dumbledore said to give him a chance,” I conceded. With parents like his, Malfoy really never had one before the war.

            “Exactly. So let him do his part to make this world brighter. Let him undo some of the wrong he did,” Hermione said.

            “This is a really excellent way of making amends. He is sharing something so wonderful with all of the wizarding world. Everyone will want to see this,” Kingsley said.

            “I just don’t want them to,” I replied, knowing they were right, but having difficulty with the idea that everyone would see me as I was.

            “Your story is too big to keep it to yourself, Harry. We talked about this,” Hermione replied.

            “Yeah, mate. We have to tell the world what happened, so that there isn’t another war,” Ron seconded.

            I shrugged, knowing I had lost.

            A gleam lit up Kingsley’s eye as he realized he had won. “Excellent! Then it’s settled: we’ll use Draco Malfoy’s painting,” he concluded.

            I nodded in defeat. I still didn’t like it, but who was I to stop Draco from sharing something that was quite personal for him too.


	2. Chapter2

            Draco Malfoy was invited to the gala as one of the featured artists. The room was set up with portraits of all of the war heroes, including Malfoy’s painting of me. I thought that that one painting was more than enough of me to share and still wasn’t eager to share even that. But as always with him, he took it a step further and brought three more portraits of me. They were the last three in the collage: me after the war, me during the trials, and me returning his wand to him.

            They were a type of single image portrait. Not the type we had at Hogwarts that featured semi-sentient figures interacting with a static scene, but the rarer type that was more like a short movie, or a comic even. They were flat, nearly sentient images that told a story, moving through time the way a wizarding photo did. These were the new style, used mostly in wizarding comic books, not the style of the founders. They were like giant wizarding comics done with oils instead of pen, except each was magnificently and artfully crafted and an exact representation of the event they captured and there were no words.

            The post-war scene in the Great Hall showed a me that was exhausted, grieving, and relieve, just as I’d been a year ago. The me from the trials had details in his full painting that hadn’t been there in the abbreviated version; details that indicated that this wasn’t just me at any trial, but at Draco’s trial. Other Death Eaters were there as witnesses for the prosecution, trying to earn a lighter sentence by turning on Draco, but I had taken the stand and said that the witnesses were the guilty ones and Draco was the innocent. I had saved him and he was there in the background to witness it, shock on his face.

            The last portrait, the most recent of the bunch, showed the last time I’d seen Draco Malfoy before tonight. It showed the full scene, from me surprising him by showing up at his gates, to the elves leading me in, to me handing over the wand, to the look of hope on his face, to him using the wand as he did a pureblood ritual to honor the dead. Honoring the dead seemed like the perfect way to end and well, that was what I was doing here today.

            All in all, I couldn’t fault him for his work, any more than I could be happy that he was sharing my personal memories. I decided to avoid him and his paintings, hiding out as far away as I could get, while still being at the same event. I did get asked about him and people kept telling me how much they loved his work and that they were going to buy one or all three; he came with reprints to sell after all. But, I did my best to put him and the paintings out of my mind and focus on the real reason we were gathered: to honor all of those who had died fighting Voldemort.


	3. Chapter3

            As time passed, the Malfoy name began to primarily be associated not with a family of Death Eaters, but the family that the best Harry Potter painter came from. It was almost like no one remembered Draco had been a Death Eater. Or they did remember and they just didn’t care, because his paintings were that good. His paintings were praised far and wide, everyone agreeing that each and every one was special and not just because I was the subject. They recognized the rawness of them and wanted more.

            While I shied away from the paintings themselves, Draco had always been a matter of curiosity with me. Six months after that fateful gala an interview with him came over the Wizarding Wireless. I listened to it, just as eagerly as the fans. Maybe even more so, because I wanted to know what made him tick. I wanted to know how he could see me so clearly, when no one else did. I wanted to know if he really saw me as I truly am, as how he painted me, or was he painting me like that to sell portraits. I wanted to know why me. Why didn’t he sell portraits of his mum or his peacocks or of the mermaids in the Black lack, as seen through the windows in the Slytherin dungeons?

            The interview began with a short introduction by a witch. She washed over his role in the war, while mentioning that he’d been at school with me and so had a front row seat to my teenaged years. She touted his paintings and praised his artistic genius with a brush. Then she asked him how it had all started with the painting and if he always wanted to be an artist.

            “When I was little, I wanted to be a professional Quidditch player. I fancied myself a great champion on a broomstick. But when I wasn’t flying, I was drawing or painting. I was well known among the Slytherins for my comics during my school years. Less so for my Quidditch skills. I had a happy childhood; as pleasant as could be, given my parents were who they were and taught me what they taught me. I was spoiled and overly praised. I had the best art lessons money could buy. I didn’t paint these because I grew up, realized Quidditch wasn’t going to happen, and decided to rely on my real talent. I painted these for me. These are my memories. They’re my life, captured in Potter form. Potter was the hero; I was just the spectator to it,” Draco’s voice came over the wireless.

            The female radio DJ then went on to say, “It is said that Harry Potter doesn’t like your portraits. Hermione Granger has said that the reason for this is that they show him as he really is and he’s a private person. Would you say this is true, Mr. Malfoy? Do you show Potter as he really is?”

            “I try. I must admit to being biased. I paint the memories that are engraved on the back of my eyelids when I close them. I’ve never painted the final battle, because I was not there to see it. I was injured by then and had slunk off to my dorm to hide. I can’t paint that. There are a lot of other really great moments in his life, that I’ll never paint, either because I was not there, or because they were not my focus. I wasn’t always concerned with him and what he was doing; I’ve always been self-centered, concerned with me. It came as a shock to me to realize that he was the hero of my story,” Draco Malfoy answered.

            The radio DJ continued, “Some of your paintings show Potter during his less heroic moments. Some say that things couldn’t have been as you’ve depicted them. What do you say to that?”

            “Potter isn’t among those who say that. If he had something to say, then I’d pull the memory out and examine it in a Penseive. I do examine them in Penseives, when I can’t quite remember a detail I want to draw. I never make any of it up; no artistic license. He is as he was. Everyone else draws him better than he was, but he was only ever human; just a boy, forced to play the hero.”

            There was a long pause, some shuffling of papers, and then a change in topic. “When did you start painting?”

            “Before I can remember. My mother paints. She put a brush and a pencil in my hand at a very early age. She’s shown me my early works; they’re no different than the scribblings of any child.”

            “That’s modest. You showed me one of an owl before we sat down to talk. You said you did that when you were four,” she said.

            “Well yes, by four I may have been better than your average child. But then my mother and my tutors had me drawing every day for two years by that point,” he answered.

            “Still, this is not your children’s painting of a cartoon owl. You painted the owl how it really was. Have you always done that? Painted things as they are?” she asked.

            “I’m not that imaginative; I have always only made what I can see. I start with my pencil and draw what’s in front of me, whether it’s Harry Potter, an owl, the Black Lack at Hogwarts, or my mother,” he answered.

            “Where are those other paintings? Why haven’t you put them up for sell?”

            “Oh I have those paintings. I just didn’t think they would sell the way my Potter pieces have,” Malfoy said. I wished he would’ve tried. He could’ve gotten famous for them and left me alone.

            “You’ve said you painted the first one, of Potter catching the snitch in his mouth, when you were only eleven.”

            “Yes, I started it when I was eleven. It began as a sketch that night. I worked on it for a long time. I was obsessed with him,” he admitted. “During the school year, I mostly sketched. When I went home for Christmas holidays, I painted it. I didn’t finish it until the summer though, when I was twelve.”

            “You painted it, as it is in your collection? As it is in the reprints you sell?” she asked.

            “Yes.”

            “You didn’t touch it up, as you got better?” she pressed.

            “No. It’s far from my best work. There are some flaws with my technique. If I would do that one now, I wouldn’t do it like that. That’s how I painted when I was eleven. The second one I painted when I was twelve; that one is much better. I had a painting lesson with a master in Italy during the summer right after first year. He made all the difference,” Draco answered.

            This was hard for me to believe. His first painting was so unbelievably good. And Ron had been saying from the beginning that Draco must’ve gone back and touched them up, to remove the prejudice against me. But according to this interview, Draco hadn’t changed a thing.

            “So your collage: you had all of the portraits for that ready to go?” she asked.

            “Yes. I’d done them all for myself. They were all in my gallery, along with the one of my father sitting at his desk and the one of a family house elf washing the dishes. I saw the article saying they were having a portrait made of Potter and decided to offer them a collage of my work. It paid off,” he answered.

            “It sure has. Word is that at least nine out of every ten portraits of Potter out there, is a reprint of one of yours. It sounds like you have been very successful. What do you plan to do next? Are there more portraits of Potter in the works?” she asked.

            “No, not of him. I don’t see him anymore. Lately, I’ve been going to the dragon reserve up in the Hebrides and drawing dragons. Maybe someday I’ll be famous enough to sell paintings of dragons, instead of Potters,” he answered.

            And then the interview was over. The reporter thanked him for talking to her and he thanked her for having him. Wizard rock came on, finalizing the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Review!


	4. Chapter4

            Replicas of the next two paintings were released to the public for sale after the interview. With the first, it was clear that what Draco Malfoy had said about it being of poorer quality than the others, was true. It was much shorter than the others; far shorter than the three post-war works and shorter even then the second painting. It was literally only the thirty-second loop of me catching the snitch seen in the collage and that was it. I couldn’t tell what was wrong with the brushstrokes, because it looked fine to my eye, but the experts agreed it was inferior work. Maybe it was a little blurrier than the others, with crisp lines materializing out of a jumble, but for an eleven-year-old, it was impressive.

            With the second, it was obvious that Draco was the painter. He was featured in a larger part of the scene than was apparent from the snippet in the collage. It started with the four of us kids meeting Hagrid and fang, followed our journey through the forest as Draco and I split from the others, through our discovery of the unicorn and the creature drinking its blood, and ended as the scene went off with a screaming Draco running away in terror. There was no indication of what had happened to me, how my scar had burned, or how the centaur had rescued me that night. This was Draco’s story; I was just the hero.

            Like the other portraits, I tried my best to avoid them, but still, they were everywhere. The only thing that made them fade into the background, was that at the second anniversary of the war, Draco released the next two portraits in his collection! The snake scene again turned out to feature him more than I’d initially realized, because he was the one to conjure the snake.

            The one of me at the end of second year though, didn’t show him at all. It seemed to be a stolen moment of sadness that had struck him for some reason. When asked about it by reporters, he said he just dwelled on it a lot over the summer, because he couldn’t understand why I was so sad to be going home. That sent Skeeter off with her speculations, again, reprinting what little had gotten out to the public about my life with the Dursleys. Thankfully I hadn’t spilled my guts too much about it to anyone other than Ron and Hermione, so it was little enough.

            The second year portraits were followed six months later by the third year ones, which I managed to avoid, due to a prolonged case tracking down a fugitive overseas. That was a mercy, because they included the Dementor one and I _did not_ want to relieve that memory. And word was that the Buckbeak one continued past me riding the Hippogriff to include Draco’s provocation and then attack by that same Hippogriff. I heard it was graphic too, showing the arm sliced to the bone before Madam Pomphrey minded it. People talked then of how lucky it was that she had been able to mend it, because otherwise that arm would never have been able to produce that portrait or the ones that came after.

            By that time, Draco’s dragon paintings were selling at exorbitant prices, due to the fact that he was actually selling the originals and not reprints. Everyone wanted an original Malfoy and the original Malfoy Potters weren’t up for sale. They settled for the Malfoy Dragons and began a pissing contest to buy them.

            Then came the fourth year portraits released on the third anniversary of the war. The one of me fighting the dragon wasn’t too bad. Me dancing was embarrassing, but it also turned out to be funny, when the full portrait revealed Draco to have been watching me so intently. He’d clearly been as obsessed with me in fourth year as I was with him in sixth.

            I volunteered for an undercover assignment in the far north wilderness in Scotland, hoping that it would have me away for the rest of the series. It worked, in that I never really had to suffer through seeing the fifth year collection, including the one of me grieving after Sirius’ death. But unfortunately, sixth year’s bathroom was still being talked about when I returned. Being away for the war anniversary and its unveiling turned out to bite me in the but with the press.

            The bathroom portrait was bad. I remembered the incident being horrible, but the portrait was even more gruesome than I remembered. Worse, since it was the second last to be released and far more telling than the rest, it was the one that stayed in the public consciousness and never seemed to fade away. The very last one, the one of me and my friends escaping Malfoy Manor on Easter was a dud in comparison to the impact the bathroom one made.

            I hadn’t hidden what I’d done. When I gave interviews, I was honest about the fact that I’d nearly killed Draco Malfoy in a bathroom during sixth year with a curse I didn’t know. But the thing was that very few people had seen it and those who had, never gave more details than that. Most people figured he deserved it. A few people even knew about the Cruciutus he’d been trying for and doubly excused my actions in their minds. He was a Death Eater and tried an Unforgiveable and the public refused to see me for the monster I was.

            Even after the bathroom portrait was released, public sympathy was still on my side. Sure there were those that admitted that I was completely in the wrong, but even they excused me for being the fucking savior. I wanted to punch the lot of them to get them to shut up, because they didn’t know what they were talking about. Yes, they could see the whole thing from Draco’s point of view in their replica portraits, the bestselling of the bunch, and my emotional pain and horror at what I’d done was evident on my face, but they didn’t know. That was my personal moment of horror and I didn’t want to share.

            What was more, was that I didn’t want to relive it or to learn that it had been worse than I’d realized. My perspective, holding him as he bled out, limited my view of the gruesome wounds. The wounds shown in the painting were deep and made me cringe to look upon them. My throat always closed tight when I saw him bleeding out. The painting spared no detail, starting with Draco’s breakdown before I entered, and following him to the hospital wing after Snape had healed him. Only Snape hadn’t fully healed him, which I hadn’t know. I’d been off hiding the book, getting together with Ginny, and hiding the obvious from Snape. I hadn’t even bothered to visit the Hospital Wing as Draco lay bleeding and in pain.

            I wished that portrait was a comic, if only for the narration the words would provide. No one in the Hospital Wing scene explained what was going on, how bad the injuries were, or where the blood was coming from. It was just Draco crying in a bloody bed, wearing a bloody gown. Pomphrey was treating him, but not fixing him. For some reason, it seemed like she was letting him heal on his own. Maybe Sectumsempra couldn’t be completely cured by magic; maybe it took time too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that’s the paintings and the background we need to move forward with the story. Please note the passing of time in this chapter—years have gone by—I wanted there to be time for the dynamic between Harry and Draco to shift. Now Harry isn’t fresh out of the final battle and Draco is a very famous painter, which I think evens the playing field.  
> Up next Harry will finally confront Draco about the paintings and learn what happened when Draco was taken to the hospital wing after the Sectumsempra. Any guesses what it could be?


	5. Chapter 5

            A week after the last portrait came out, I was forced to give an interview to the Daily Prophet about the case I’d just completed. And since the reporter had me there answering questions for the first time in months, he asked me about the second to last portrait, the bathroom one.

            “It is titled The Death of an Innocent. But Draco Malfoy didn’t actually die that day, did he?” the reporter asked me.

            “No, he was close though,” I answered. “He would’ve been dead, if not for Professor Snape.”

            “Then what do you think that title means?” he asked.

            “The death of innocence. It was the day my innocence died; maybe his too,” I answered.

 

* * *

 

 

            Draco was asked about my comment on the painting while in the streets of Diagon Alley. A photo of his shocked expression made it into the morning paper, along with a quote. “What!?! No! That painting was not about the death of _Potter’s_ innocence! I couldn’t care less about the death of his innocence! I don’t care about what he meant to do or what lesson he learned! That painting was _literally_ about the killing of an innocent fetus in the womb! It was about _my_ baby! Kyara Soleil. _She_ was innocent and Harry Potter killed her.”

            The following day’s paper came with an elaboration: He was four months pregnant that day in the loo and although Snape had been able to heal him, no one could save his unborn daughter. He’d been debating whether to name her Kyara, which he thought was prettier but was Irish, or Soleil, which meant the same in French: sun. Even though she wasn’t born, she was his sun, the center of his galaxy. But then I’d killed her. That was the only painting he’d done with me in it that year, because Kyara was his only focus for a long time. I was there and I was at fault, but for once, it wasn’t about me.

            That was complete and utter bullshite. I crumpled up the paper and threw it in the fire. He hadn’t been pregnant. I wasn’t a murderer. I didn’t kill his unborn daughter. This was a publicity stunt. I didn’t know why he was doing it, but I was going to stop it. Enough was enough. I apparated to the gates of Malfoy Manor.

            A house elf showed me in and Draco Malfoy met me in the drawing room.

            “I do hope this is good; if this gets out, I’ll be forced to paint it,” Draco said instead of a greeting.

            He looked good, more than before. It’d been three years since I’d last seen him at the unveiling of the Potter collage. In that time, he’d filled out; he was no longer gaunt and sallow from the war, but healthy and just a bit taller. His hair looked thicker too, tousled into the new style. The bright white of his teeth contrasted with the red of his plump lips. He’d grown into his pointy features some, so that they were flattering instead of overly sharp. He was the epitome of a tall handsome wizard.

            “That’s what I want to talk to you about: I want you to stop selling the bathroom one. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of the Kyara thing too. It has to stop, Draco,” I insisted.

            “No. You don’t get to be sick of her. You killed her. She’s gone and no one can bring her back. If I have to live with it, so do you. I am not going to let you go around like it never happened. She was alive and good and innocent. You took her away from me,” he insisted.

            “What are you talking about? You’ve never even been pregnant!” I exclaimed. He looked at me with utter contempt, as if he couldn’t believe I was saying this, as if I was lower that the sludge that the house elves spelled off the undersides of his shoes. “You’re a bloke and you were sixteen! Sixteen-year-old blokes don’t just get knocked up!”

            “I did!” he replied.

            “How? Why? By who?” I pressed.

            “A male fertility potion, by my boyfriend Rex, because I wanted to kill myself, but realized that I couldn’t do it without an heir. My father had a life sentence in Azkaban at the time and it was up to me to carry on the family line,” he answered angrily.

            “You wanted to kill yourself?” I asked, taken aback.

            “Yes. The Dark Lord had ordered me to do something that I couldn’t do. My father was in prison. I was a failure. I wanted to die. But no, I can’t do it, because Harry Fucking Savior Chosen One Scarhead Potter killed my Kyara. No heir for me; no suicide.”

            I spluttered and then proclaimed, “You can’t be serious!”

            “I can and I am.” Then he summoned one of his paintings and shoved it in my face. “See, Potter?”

            It was a small canvas, full up with a fetus. It was translucent pink and unmoving. The head was almost as big as the body, the eyes a little large, and the arms and legs short and thin. The facial features were fully formed and pointy, like a miniature Malfoy.

            “She’s a girl. I found out just weeks before you killed her,” he said.

            “A girl?” I asked.

            “Yes.”

            “Are you sure?” I asked.

            “Yes. The spell showed me. She was sucking her little thumb. And then when she died, Pomphrey removed her from my body and let me hold her. She was so tiny; only as big as my hand. She was definitely a girl,” he confirmed.

            “Pomphrey knew?” I asked, still in disbelief, but starting to get an inkling that he was either telling the truth or completely delusional.

            “Not until it was too late. I kept it from everyone, to protect my precious Kyara. But the first thing I did when I regained consciousness was to ask about her. By then Pomphrey had already figured out what was wrong and that my baby was dead. Pomphrey helped me bury her in the Hogsmeade cemetery; Snape too.”

            “If you were pregnant, why didn’t anyone ever tell me?” I asked.

            “Life isn’t always about you, Potter. The world doesn’t revolve around you. I didn’t exactly have time for you in my grief. And it’s not like you came to check on me to see how we were doing,” he answered with a sneer.

            The horror began to sink in. At the time, I had feared I might’ve murdered Draco, but then it turned out to be worse; I murdered an unborn baby. I’d taken an innocent life. And I’d been so self-absorbed with my budding romance with Ginny that I hadn’t even bothered to notice. I was a worse monster than I knew.

            “I didn’t know…” I whispered.

            “That doesn’t make it better.”

            “No. Of course not. What can I do?” I asked.

            “I don’t want to leave her there in Hogsmeade. I never wanted to bury her there, but it wasn’t safe to come back here with her. The Dark Lord would’ve killed me if he’d known. I plan on reburying her. Come,” he answered.

            “You want me to…come to your daughter’s…funeral?”

            “Yes. Just a little one, here at the Malfoy Cemetery, so she can be buried with the rest of the family.”

            “Why now?” I asked.

            “I’m ready to move on. I still need an heir; it’s time I get on with that. I need closure first,” he answered.

            I could give him closure. If he needed me at the funeral, then I could attend. It was the least I could do, after I took his child’s life.

            I nodded.

            “And you will say a few words about what Kyara gave her life for,” he continued.

            “What? No…I can’t,” I protested.

            “You can. She was fodder for your war efforts. She died for you, just like the others. You spoke for all of them,” he insisted.

            “Not all of them. Snape, yes, but not the others.”

            “All the same, you will speak for my Kyara Soleil. She deserves as much,” he replied.

            He had me there, so I reluctantly agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s the big reveal. Now Harry will have to live with what he’s done and you know how the guilt eats at him…What do you think?
> 
> I’m moving back home to California tonight. It’s been seven years. Wish me luck.


	6. Chapter 6

            I went to the funeral to commemorate the reburial of Kyara Malfoy and was surprised how low key it was. I was expecting something over-the-top, with a million people and endless pompous ceremony worthy of a Malfoy; something way out of proportion for a fetus that no one had ever met. But what I got was a gathering of four: Draco Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy, Madam Pomphrey, and myself. There was mournful music playing in the background of the completely undecorated Malfoy cemetery. The only flowers were a small bundle picked from the garden that started off in Draco’s hands and ended up on top of the tiny grave. We all said our few words about how sorry we were for her loss. I included all of my feelings on what a monster I was and how she was the first and only person I have ever killed. Draco surprised me by taking the blame for her death upon himself, saying it was unfair of him to attempt to bring a child into such a bad situation and his fault again for getting in a fight with me, and thereby failing to protect her. And then it was over. He broke down crying as he asked her to forgive him. Then it was over and Draco and Narcissa went inside and didn’t invite me to follow.

            It was all very simple and tasteful and lulled me into a false sense of security. I thought maybe Draco had changed. I know Draco warned me that he would be pressured to paint me now that he’d seen me again, but this was his baby’s second funeral, so I hoped it might be too personal for him to share. Maybe this wouldn’t turn into yet another one of his famous Potter paintings.

 

* * *

 

 

            It wasn’t the funeral that was released as the next painting in the series. I groaned and had a sense of _Déjà vu_ as I remembered the words Draco had said when I walked up to his door: “If this gets out, I’ll be forced to paint it.” And that was exactly what he’d painted. Our entire interaction when I’d confronted him about the bathroom painting and he’d told me of Kyara’s death, from when he opened the door, to when I left, strolling sadly down that long walk. It was an emotional scene.

            At least it didn’t have the words, leaving some mystery as to what we discussed that day. No one knew it was the moment I found out I was a murderer. I wanted it to stay that way. I didn’t want Draco to give an interview about the painting, or worse, explain the context in anyway. I tried sending an owl to that effect, but my message was returned unopened with a note.

 

* * *

 

 

            _Potter, if you would like to communicate with me, you can do so in person._

_-Draco Malfoy_

* * *

 

 

            That is why I once again made my way to Malfoy Manor. Normally an elf lets me in, but not this time. I was left out by the gate, calling for Nobby to let me in, like a jackass or something. After it was clear the elf wasn’t coming, I looked around for a knocker or a bell or something. But this wasn’t a front door, only a gate, and there was nothing but the intruder alarm, which had been going off since my arrival, as usual.

            I considered turning around and going home, but then thought better of it. If it was a case of the humans not being home, the elves would’ve answered. So the humans had to be home and ordering the elves not to answer for me. But Draco Malfoy had refused my owl and practically demanded I come in person. I wasn’t going to let him now turn me away.

            I used my Auror knowledge on breaking and entering to force my way past the outer wards. I then walked up the drive to the door, where I was able to knock. I stood there on the stoop for a long time, before Draco Malfoy _finally_ answered the door.

            “Oh _Harry_ , it’s you,” he said coming outside and hugging me, leaving the door ajar. His eyes fluttered against the sun, thick but pale lashes fanning up and down. “I love you so, _soooo_ very much, even though you murdered Voldemort, who would’ve totally made the world a much better place.” There was a noise from inside the house and he turned to look at the mostly closed door with a scared expression. His lip trembled ever so slightly. Then he turned back to me and continued talking in that out of character manner that screamed of bad acting. “I know you come here _every day_ at this time for sex, because we’re sooo madly in love and have been secretly dating for _ages_ , but I’m sorry, I can’t have guests today. You have to go.”

            He looked at me with large pleading eyes, but I wasn’t sure what he was pleading for. For me to go? For me to go along with his story? Or for me to save him from whatever was going on inside his house?

            Something was definitely going on. Not only were we not on hugging terms, but we weren’t having sex, and I didn’t come here on a regular basis. Plus, he never called Voldemort by name, always using “The Dark Lord,” and he wasn’t upset about my defeat of his lord and he didn’t think Voldemort would make the world a better place. That wasn’t Draco.

            “No, I really think we need to be having sex today. It’s been so long,” I said, slowly pushing the door open, taking in the scene. The house was empty and nothing looked out of place.

            “But we just had sex this morning before you went to work, dear. This much sex really isn’t _safe_ ,” he replied, emphasizing the last word.

            “That probably depends on the room, don’t you think, _dear_? Are you worried your mother is going to walk in on us, if we do it right here in the entryway?” I asked, wand out as I entered the house. My body had begun to react to the conversation with a swelling, but I focused on the situation and did my best to clear the unwanted images out of my head.

            “My mother…it’s like sixth year. You know how I worry,” he said following me.

            I turned around to face him and he gave me a pointed look, silently begging me to understand: his mother was in danger.

            “Like when I walked into the forest to meet my death,” I said.

            “Yes,” he answered.

            “Well that can’t be helped. She’s like that. Perhaps we should fuck in the drawing room today,” I said, having reached the door.

            He didn’t respond to that. “Or your bedroom?” I asked. Again nothing. “Or one of the other upstairs rooms?”

            “That might upset my mother,” he said. “You should probably just go.” I turned around and headed up the stairs. “You really shouldn’t be here today. Can you come back tomorrow?”

            “No, I cannot. There’s the urgent matter of that sex we are supposed to be having,” I replied, opening the doors one at a time, clearing the room of suspects, and moving on. I still didn’t know what was going on, but my Auror training was kicking in.

            “As long as we don’t do it in my studio at the end of the hall,” he said, cluing me into where the trouble was.

            I moved along to the end of the hall and threw open the door to a large art studio. Something was off. The room was strangely empty. Normally there were finished paintings in art studios, but this one had only one mostly blank canvas on an easel. No finished works.

            “Mother!?!” Draco called out in anguish, dropping to his knees right there in the doorway, his hands going to cover his mouth. His eyes were wet with unshed tears.

            I first checked that all of the closets and hiding places were empty, before searching the rest of the house. Once verifying that we were alone, I returned to the studio, where Draco was sitting on the floor, his legs clutched to his chest, and rocking back and forth.

            “Draco, what happened?” I asked gently, but firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

            “He took my mother,” he answered in a whispered tone of shock. His eyes were red, as if he were about to cry or had just been crying while I was checking the rest of the house.

            “Who took your mother?” I pressed.

            “The thief. He took my paintings and now he has my mother.”

            “Was the thief here when I got here, Draco?”

            “Yes. He told me to get rid of you. I told him you wouldn’t go without sex. He said he didn’t care. ‘Get rid of Potter, or else,’ he said,” he answered.

            “What was he after?” I asked.

            “The paintings. He took all of the paintings. He wanted the Potter originals. He even took my other works. He took everything. He took my Kyara.” He let out a gasping sob, but then pulled himself back together as quickly as he’d begun to unravel. “But that wasn’t enough.”

            “What else did he want, Draco?”

            “He wanted me to paint the funeral,” there was a slight pause and a lip tremble, “for him. I told him I haven’t painted it and he said he was going to stay here until I did. I mixed the blue and was starting the sky, when you showed up. This isn’t how I paint. I don’t just put blue paint on a canvas. It doesn’t work like that. I was just trying to make him happy, so that he wouldn’t hurt my mother. He had his wand to her throat. And now she’s gone,” he revealed, silent tears streaking down his face.

            “How did he know about the funeral?” I asked. Often knowing details like this would tell me who did the crime. Only four people were at the funeral.

            “He didn’t. Not really. He thought the last painting was something else. He thought we were lovers—that the next painting was going to be us together—that’s why I made up the lie about you coming over for sex,” he answered. When he was focusing on these other aspects of the crime, he was able to put on some of the old façade of aloof uncaring.

            “Did you know him?” I asked.

            “I…maybe…he looked familiar.”

            “Describe him.”

            “Blond, short, dorky, muggle fashions, camera around his neck,” he said.

            That was ringing a lot of bells for me. “Was he at Hogwarts with us?”

            “Not in our year…I would’ve remembered if he was in our year.”

            “No, he would’ve been two years younger. Colin’s little brother, Dennis,” I suggested.

            “Which one was Colin?” he asked.

            “Muggleborn, camera, always following me around and taking annoying pictures.”

            “Oh, the one always licking your shoes!” he exclaimed, jumping up and snapping his fingers like something was clicking. “Yes, this thief looked like the shoe-licker with the camera!”

            “Colin is dead though. Died in the war. I think this might be his brother,” I said.

            “I don’t remember the shoe-licker’s brother,” he said.

            That would explain why Draco didn’t recognize the thief. I had my lead and a case to work. This is what I did best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I’m living in the dark ages, because none of my relatives have internet. I had to go to a Target to post this.   
> Please review!


	7. Chapter 7

            I tried to leave then, to investigate. It was the only way to find Narcissa Malfoy. But then Draco Malfoy broke down in sobs and begged me not to leave him. He tugged on my heartstrings, showing me that vulnerable side of his that I hadn’t seen since the bathroom.

            I was still trying to convince him that I had to go, when a pair of Aurors showed up at the front door. I recognized them as Aurors Smith and Kelton.

            “Oi, Potter’s already investigating,” Smith said to Kelton.

            “Figures.” Kelton snorted.

            “What’s going on? How were you alerted to the kidnapping?” I asked.

            “What kidnapping? Has Draco Malfoy been kidnapped?” Kelton asked.

            “No, Draco Malfoy alerted me to the kidnapping of Narcissa Malfoy,” I answered.

            “Narcissa Malfoy is at Headquarters. She alerted us that you interrupted a burglary in progress,” Smith answered.

            “My mother is safe! Oh thank Merlin!” Draco exclaimed and hugged me as he sobbed in relief. My heart melted a bit at the display of emotion.

            I patted Draco’s shoulder and asked, “How did she get away from the thief?”

            “According to her story, the thief apparated away after sending her son down to deal with you. The moment she was alone, she apparated to us to fetch help. We didn’t believe her story, because why would you be here at the exact moment the Malfoys are being robbed? Far-fetched, isn’t it?” Smith asked.

            “But we verified your location using the locator spell and you were here, so we had to come out,” Kelton finished.

            “Right, so let’s get to work. I have a lead,” I informed them, before launching into what I knew about Dennis Creevey and why I thought it was him.

            But before we could investigate, I still had to deal with a very emotional Draco Malfoy, who I dropped off at headquarters, reuniting him with his mother. Then Kelton, Smith, and I went to Dennis Creevey’s house.

            Dennis Creevey was home, organizing all of Draco Malfoy’s original paintings in his garage, like he had done nothing wrong; like he had a right to barge in the Malfoy home and take the paintings by wand-point.

            “Dennis, what have you done?” I asked, Smith and Kelton flanking me and covering me with their wands.

            “Putting my new paintings in a safe place. I don’t want them to get damaged,” Creevey answered.

            “About those paintings: I need you to come into headquarters with me to discuss it,” I said.   

            “Whatever for?” Creevey asked.

            “You know what for. You can’t just take Malfoy’s originals and get away with it. We need to question you,” I answered.

            “Take them? Malfoy _gave_ them to me, to repay me for the loss of my brother during the war,” Creevey replied.

            That made no sense. In the pile of stolen paintings, I could see the small one of the dead fetus Draco had named Kyara. There was absolutely _no_ way Draco had given away his Kyara painting. He didn’t even sell reprints of that one.

            “That’s not what he said,” I retorted.

            “Well he’s a liar. _Everyone_ knows that. He’s a Death Eater and a liar. I thought you were sleeping with him, but when I confronted him, he didn’t know what I was talking about. Then he started lying to me, trying to tell me that you are sleeping together after all. I’m not that stupid,” he said.

            I rolled my eyes. He wasn’t that stupid to be fooled by Draco’s acting, but he was stupid enough to return home with priceless stolen paintings and think he could get away with it?

            “Narcissa Malfoy said you had her at wand-point,” I stated.

            “She’s a liar too. They probably discussed it; worked out their story,” Creevey retorted.

            “Either way, you have to come in with me. Will you go willingly?” I asked.

            “Am I being charge with a crime?” Creevey asked.

            I looked to Smith and Kelton.

            “We don’t have enough evidence yet to charge him with anything. We just need his side of the story,” Kelton said.

            “It will just be the questioning for now,” I added. We’d make the decision on what to charge him with after the interview.

            “Alright, just let me lock up my new paintings,” Creevey said, moving towards the painting he had been fiddling with when we arrived.

            “Don’t move! Hands up!” Smith yelled.

            “You can’t touch those, Dennis,” I added.

            “Why not? They’re mine. It’s like I said: Malfoy gave them to me in reparation for his crimes,” Creevey said, freezing in place.

            “Do you have a receipt or certificate of ownership, signed by Malfoy?” I asked.

            “No. Why would I have a receipt, when he gave them to me?” Creevey asked in return.

            “You know as well as I do that those paintings are worth a fortune. You can’t just transfer ownership without reporting the transaction to the Ministry. Someone still has to pay the taxes,” I fibbed. If I could get him to think we bought his story, he might be more willing to come in without a fight.

            “Oh, taxes? Is that what this is about? I wasn’t trying to cheat the Ministry out of the taxes; I just acquired these today. I’ll pay the taxes, no problem,” Creevey replied.

            “Yes, the taxes need to be dealt with. We have to take custody of the paintings until the matter is settled,” I confirmed.

            “You won’t give them back to Malfoy, will you? They’re mine,” Creevey said.

            “I thought you said Malfoy gave them to you?” I asked.

            “He did give them to me. But you said he told you that I stole them. He has no honor; probably trying to take them back, so that he can make more money off of you,” Creevey answered. “Aren’t you angry that he paints all of these portraits of you and then keeps all of the money for himself?”

            “We can discuss this at the Ministry, Dennis. We have paperwork to file and I have to get back before my boss sends the hit wizards out after me,” I replied.

            “Don’t damage my paintings and don’t give them back to Malfoy. I’ll take this matter to the courts if I have to,” Creevey said, sounding like he was conceding to being taken in.

            I moved in and secured Creevey and then transported him to the Ministry. Once there, I led him to an empty interrogation room and turned on the magical recorder to capture the interview.

            “If I didn’t know better, Harry, I would say you are treating me like a criminal. You know, I’m not the criminal here; Malfoy is,” Creevey said.

            “Is that why you arranged for Malfoy to give you war reparations?” I asked.

            “Yes. He is responsible for Colin’s death. He owed me,” Creevey answered.

            “Draco Malfoy didn’t kill Colin, Dennis. Draco Malfoy didn’t kill anyone. None of the Malfoys killed anyone that day. None of them were even there when he died,” I said.

            “It was still Lucius Malfoy that was in control of it all; number one Death Eater and second in charge of the whole lot of them, answerable only to Voldemort himself. Draco took over when his father went to Azkaban,” Creevey said, sounding like he believed it.

            More questioning followed, with more of the same nonsensical answers from Creevey. He stuck to his story that the Malfoys were responsible for Colin’s death and would not be persuaded otherwise. He insisted that he’d gone to Malfoy Manor to discuss reparations and Draco Malfoy had agreed to his terms, handing over all of the paintings for payment. He tried to gain my sympathy by mentioning multiple times that it was unfair that the paintings were not at least partially mine; he even offered to split the paintings with me. He refused to admit he had stolen them and insisted on taking the matter of ownership to court, saying that the warlocks would believe him over the Malfoys.

            I was left with no choice but to arrest Creevey. And since he wasn’t making sense, I ordered a psyche evaluation.

            Then I tracked down Smith and Kelton, who were filing paperwork, for an update.

            “We sent in the spell geeks to check Malfoy Manor over. Trace magic shows that Creevey was there when Malfoy said he was and apparated away seconds before Narcissa Malfoy apparated to headquarters. The elf whisperer said the elves confirm the Malfoys’ story and that they saw Creevey hold a wand to Narcissa Malfoy’s throat. We have unaltered memories from Draco and Narcissa Malfoy showing Creevey breaking in, threatening them, and stealing the paintings. We’re still waiting on the report on the wards, but already I think we have enough evidence to convict. Bloke is guilty as fuck,” Smith said.

            “Caught him red-handed too,” Kelton added.

 

* * *

 

 

            Later, the psyche evaluation revealed that Creevey was on a mind-altering potion called Slush, because it turned one’s reasoning ability to slush. The part of his brain responsible for logic was dead, so in his mind, his actions made perfect sense. That didn’t make him innocent, but it did give his solicitor something to play with at trial. He still insisted he wanted to take the case to trial, wanting to rely on the public’s poor opinion of the Malfoys to justify his insanity. I vowed that I wouldn’t let him get away with it: I was going to be at that trial, take the stand, and defend Draco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like the twist, or was it anticlimactic? Going all out with an evil sadistic villain just didn’t feel right. Next chapter Harry will finally get his chance to ask Draco to stop with the paintings…


	8. Chapter 8

            The next day, I returned to Malfoy Manor to return the paintings to their rightful owner. I may not like that they existed, but I still knew that giving the Potter paintings back was the right thing to do. And I couldn’t abide the other paintings, especially the one of Kyara, being anywhere other than with Draco. It was also the action specified by law, although I probably could’ve gotten away with keeping them in Ministry custody until after the trial.

            Upon receiving his priceless paintings, Draco checked only to make sure the one of Kyara was undamaged. “Thank you for all of your help, Auror Potter,” he said gratefully, but formally.

            “You’re welcome. I don’t know if this is a good time, but I still wish to speak with you about a certain matter; you know, the letter I wrote you and the reason I was stopping by yesterday,” I said.

            “Why were you here yesterday? I thought I was well rid of you,” he replied, a glint of amusement in his eye.

            “The painting of my visit last time. I was hoping this painting nonsense could stop. You don’t want to use your own daughter’s funeral to make a profit, do you?” I asked.

            “You want me to take the last painting off the market?” he asked.

            “It’s too late for that; it’s already out there. What I want is for you not to ever explain the context behind it. Don’t paint the funeral and don’t give it away in interviews either.”

            He thought in silence for several long minutes, tapping his index finger to his pointy chin. “You want something from me, yet what do you offer in return? It seems to me that you already owe me, for the loss of my daughter. According to Creevey logic, you owe me priceless reparations,” he finally said, trademark smirk in place.

            “What sort of reparations?” I asked half incredulously. Part of me wanted to make up for my horrible mistake, but Kyara was dead, I couldn’t bring her back, and there was nothing I could do to fix it.

            “You took my heir from me, Harry,” he said, using my first name. He never used my first name. I liked the way it sounded when he said it. “Give me an heir in return.”

            “Give you an heir? I don’t have an heir to give you. Teddy is my godson; I don’t have custody of him. Even if I did, it doesn’t work that way. My heir can’t just be given to you to become your heir,” I replied.

            “Then consider the debt unpaid. I told you what I want: I want an heir. I want a baby, to replace the baby I lost; doesn’t even have to be a little girl.” His passion leaked through into his voice, his eyes shining with it. “I will leave you to figure out how to deliver. I will paint my daughter’s funeral, because it is my own form of therapy. You have until it is finished to arrange payment of your debt, or I will release it to the world. Now kindly leave. I’ve been through a lot in the past twenty-four hours and I need to rest.” He did look worn out—less put together than usual—his hair loose and falling into his eyes.

            I left.

            I went home to Grimmauld Place and brooded on the impossible task Draco Malfoy had set me. Teddy wasn’t even a baby anymore and Draco had given no indication that it was Teddy he wanted. But Teddy was the closest thing to an heir I had. Did he think Ginny and I were still together and an heir imminent? He couldn’t possibly think that, because the breakup had been _ages_ ago and the papers had had a field day with the story. That story had only faded away, because the one about my homosexuality broke. Ginny was engaged now and everyone knew it. As it was, I wasn’t ever expecting to have an heir other than Teddy. I was going to leave it all to Teddy.

 

* * *

 

 

            Eventually I did the only thing I could think of. Draco had said he wanted a baby and I didn’t have one, but I did have access to a self-replenishing supply of Weasley babies. I invited Draco over to George and Angelina’s house to show off my newest niece, Roxanne. They had a son too; a toddler named Fred. I brought four-year-old Teddy along, hoping that having the children around would break any lingering tension.

            I expected that Draco would balk at the idea and refuse my invitation, but he didn’t. He accepted. Stranger still, he came bearing gifts for all three children. Upon his arrival, he apologized to George and Angelina for his role in the war, even though he had already done so once before. Then he handed out the gifts and played with Teddy and Fred, all the while smiling brightly; not a smirk, but a full smile. It was glorious to behold. He cradled little Roxanne like she was precious, spending eons nuzzling the top of her head with his nose while she napped on his chest. He ate Angelina’s food and complimented her cooking. He made polite small talk, preferring to hear Angelina’s stories of the children rather than George’s stories of the joke shop. Only when it was late and the children being put down to bed, did he move to leave. I followed him out. Teddy had passed out first over an hour before, so I knew he’d be fine.

            “Draco, can I talk to you?” I asked, stopping him just before the apparition point.

            “Yes, Harry?” he asked, turning to look at me. He stood tall, looming over me with his lean, muscled body. He was fit and I had to fight off my attraction to him.

            “Was this what you wanted?” I asked, searching his eyes for a clue. They were an incredibly pale shade of grey and spoke volumes; I just didn’t understand what they were saying.

            He looked down, before looking back up at me and answering, “Not quite. I want what Angelina Weasley has.” His tone was sadder now, his smile turned down.

            “You want a baby of your own? A family of your own?” I asked for clarification. He nodded, eyes downcast. “Why don’t you have another baby: you’re male fertile, aren’t you?”

            “My boyfriend died in the war. I would’ve had Kyara to remember him by…”

            “You’ve never found anyone else?” I asked. He shook his head.

            I reached out a hand to stroke his cheek. I’d seen him in a new light lately and I wanted to comfort him. He may not be innocent, but he was good at heart and had a sweet side. We also had something in common: a desire for children that didn’t seem like it could possibly ever be fulfilled.

            He had a captivating sparkle in his eyes and the way his lower lip quivered made me want to reach out and touch it.

            The moment was interrupted by the sound of apparition. Ron and Hermione appeared and I suddenly realized how long my hand had been on Draco’s cheek and how long we’d been standing there looking in each other’s eyes.

            I lowered my hand, stepped back a pace, and asked, “So tonight doesn’t relieve me of my debt?”

            “Definitely not. Do give my compliments to the Weasleys; I had a lovely time and they have wonderful children,” Draco said. He strode to the apparition point and was gone.

            “No luck?” Ron asked, coming up to stand beside me.

            I shook my head. “It went well, but no. He wants his own child,” I answered.

            “Well, mate, then there’s nothing you can do. You can’t please them all. How many impossible things have you been asked to do over the years? At some point, you just have to say no,” Ron replied.

            I didn’t want to say no. I wanted to find the answer.

            “Harry, Draco is male fertile,” Hermione said.

            “So?” Ron asked, clueless.

            I held silent, waiting for what she would say, knowing it would change my life before she even told me what it was.

            “All he needs to make an heir is a sperm donation. I think that’s what he’s asking for,” Hermione continued.

            “No! Harry, you _can’t_!” Ron exclaimed.

            “No, he wouldn’t want that, would he?” I asked. She thought Draco wanted to have my baby.

            “Think about it, Harry. He’s given up trying to find someone or he doesn’t even want to try. He only wants the baby, not the husband. You can’t do it, though; it wouldn’t be right. You need to talk to him. Convince him that he just needs to be patient and the right wizard will come along,” Hermione answered.

            “Wouldn’t be right,” Ron echoed.

            I nodded. I’d have to talk to Draco.


	9. Chapter 9

            I almost went that night to Malfoy Manor to talk to Draco. I would’ve, but it was late, I was tired, and I had Teddy. I went home instead. When the morning came, I got distracted caring for my rambunctious godson. When I finally handed Teddy off to Dromeda, I was emotionally tired. The imminent discussion with Draco would be taxing and I needed to be in the right frame of mind for it, so I didn’t go. Then I put it off some more, procrastinating.

            I procrastinated until the media started buzzing with word that Draco Malfoy had completed another painting, possibly a Potter painting. The painting would either be available for reprints in the near future, if indeed a Potter painting, or available for sell, if on another subject. Either way, Draco was a big name in the art world and the completion of another of his paintings was big news.

            Figuring the painting was of the funeral, I rushed straight to Malfoy Manor.

            “Harry. I thought you weren’t going to come,” Draco said by way of greeting.

            “I think I figured out what you want, but I don’t know if I’m ready,” I returned.

            “Tell me, oh great savior, what do I want?” he asked sarcastically.

            “You want to have my baby, Draco.”

            He caught my eye and then turned away. He busied himself fiddling with a teapot set out with a tea tray, but did not respond verbally.

            “I was right?” I asked, awe and a little bit of shock in my voice. No one had ever wanted to have my baby before. He didn’t respond. “I don’t know if I could give up my child.”

            “I can share. People don’t think I can, because I’m a Malfoy, but I can. I’d prefer it, in fact. Children are meant to have two parents. I would’ve loved to do the whole falling in love and getting married first thing, but life just hasn’t worked out that way for me,” he said, not looking up from the teapot.

            I gasped at the revelation. He was still asking to have my baby, but it wouldn’t have to be a sperm donation like I’d thought. “Share custody?” I asked, to make sure.

            “Yes. You could have weekends if you want. Merlin, I have the room, you could move in, if you want. I just want your baby. I want to hold her.” His arms moved to his chest, voice emphatic.

            “Why mine?” I asked, needing to know this answer most of all.

            “It’s always been you, with me. I’ve tried to avoid it. I dated other men. I did my best to live my life without you, but it always comes back to you. I don’t know how to explain it,” he answered.

            I nodded, because I’d always felt the same way about him.

            “I need time to think about it more. Give me time?” I asked pleadingly. I knew I’d already delayed too long, but I hadn’t known he was willing to share. I hadn’t known he felt about me the way I felt about him. I hadn’t considered it. I needed to decide if I could share with him, because even if we both felt the same way, we still had a lot of history to overcome to make this work.

            He nodded. “Go. You have one week.”

            I went.

            I didn’t need a week. I thought about it for less than an hour. Then I came back.

            “I take it, you agree,” Draco said upon my return.

            “Yes,” I answered.

            He led me by the hand silently to his room. I thought this was going to be a sperm donation still. I thought he’d send me to the loo, ask me to jerk one off, and I’d hand over my seed. I’d donate the sperm and then get visitation. Maybe we’d try dating. But what happened was that he sat on my lap and pulled at my robes. I pushed his hands away.

            “What are you doing?” I asked, mind racing. Could Draco Malfoy really have been about to do what I thought he was going to do? Was he attracted to me like that?

            “Making a baby. Do I need to explain the birds and the bees to you?” he asked. I stared at him dumbfounded and he continued. “See, when two people want to make a baby-”

            I cut him off there. “You want to have sex with me?” My tone was one of disbelief. Yes, he’d just confessed his obsession with me and yes, I was used to people throwing themselves at me for sex. But this was Draco Malfoy and I wasn’t expecting it from him.

            “Yes. I take it I’m not good enough for you. Reformed Death Eaters deserve a second chance, except when it comes to your bed, Potter?” Draco sneered.

            “No,” I said. Then I took his face in my hands and kissed him firm on the lips. “I just thought you wouldn’t want more than a donation. But if we are doing this, it’s not going to be a one-night stand. I want a real relationship.”

            “As in marriage? Are you asking to elope?” He squinted one eye as he looked at me, trying to figure out what I meant.

            “Eventually. I was actually thinking of dating. We could go out to dinner,” I suggested.

            “And I could buy you flowers and woo you. I could write ballads about your beauty too.” He smirked.

            I winced. “Maybe just dinner. The paintings are far too much already.”

            “Fine, then you can buy me the flowers and woo me,” he challenged.

            I nodded. “But no ballads. I can’t sing.”

            “I wouldn’t want you to; I’ve heard your singing,” he teased.

            I chuckled.

            “So where are you taking me?” he asked.

            “Um…” Put on the spot, I was wracking my brain for somewhere we could go that he would like. “There’s that French pureblood restaurant in London, but the press likes to stake out the place and we’d probably end up on the front page of the Prophet.”

            “It’s okay, Harry; we don’t have to go out. We could just go to the dining room and have the elves make us something,” he suggested.

            I nodded eagerly. “And we could talk.”

            That was just what we did. The elves served sandwiches and Draco and I talked about what we wanted for our futures. We obviously both wanted kids; he surprised me by revealing he wanted more than one, which was good, because I wanted three. We both wanted to find that special someone who completed us. We both wanted to get married, but had both had trouble finding anyone even worth dating after our Hogwarts relationships had ended. We both didn’t want to let the public into our private lives. And we both wanted him to stop selling paintings of me and move onto selling his new stuff; I wanted it more than he did, but he had a fierce drive to prove that he could be great without painting me.

            “So Harry, why’d you and Weasley breakup? I want the real reason, not the grew apart bullshite you fed the papers,” Draco requested.

            I shrugged. “Because I’m bi.”

            “Oh do elaborate,” Draco requested, pressing the tips of his fingertips together, as if he was settling in for a good story.

            “I was so stressed and busy with the war, that I didn’t realize that I like men too. Then after it was all over, this relief came washing over me and with it, this attraction to men. She was my girlfriend, but I couldn’t stop staring at men and it creeped her out. She thought I was gay. I tried to explain that I liked both, but she didn’t get it,” I explained.

            “Witch Weekly speculates that the two of you still hookup, sexually. Is that true?” The glint in his eye was back.

            “No! Of course not!” I exclaimed. He lifted an eyebrow. “We’re still friends, but that’s it. We get seen talking in public and the gossip mongers go crazy. That’s all it is: gossip.”

            “So you have no desire to get back together with her?” he asked.

            “No. We’re alright as friends, but she still doesn’t really understand how I could be attracted to witches and wizards at the same time. I won’t go down that road again,” I insisted.

            He nodded, satisfied with my answer.

            “Is it going to be a problem for you?” I asked.

            “While I dislike your friends, I don’t really see them being a problem on my end. As long as they don’t start something, that is,” he replied.

            “No. I meant with my sexuality. Does it bother you that I’m bi?” I asked, holding my breath. I’d already considered what my friends thought of him. The majority were willing to forgive and the ones who weren’t hadn’t spoken to me since the trials anyway. What I was most concerned about was whether he’d have the same reaction as Ginny.

            “Why would I? Your fondness for wizards suits me just fine,” he replied.

            “I like witches too. What about that?” I asked insistently.

            He shrugged. “Why should that bother me? As long as you aren’t trying to bring one into my bed or rubbing my nose in some crush you have, then I don’t care,” he answered.

            I nodded. There was a pause and then I changed the subject. “What shape does your Patronus take?”

            “I’ve never been able to cast the Patronus charm.” He tapped his index finger to his lips as he thought. “I should hope it would be something fierce, like a dragon. But knowing my luck, it’d turn out to be a unicorn or something.”

            “You ought to learn. I could teach you,” I offered. There were other ways to ward against Dementors and besides, the Ministry had the beasts under control now—there were only the rare hatching of old eggs left in remote misty mountains to deal with—so knowing the Patronus charm wasn’t as critical these days, but it was still one of my favorites.

            He shrugged. “Next you’ll be asking about my Expelliarmus, which is fine, by the way. I guess dating the Savior comes with free Patronus and Expelliarmus lessons,” he teased, a smirk of his face.

            I had the sudden urge to kiss that smirk off his face. But instead I laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. He laughed with me and it was beautiful.

            Later, when the laughing died down, Draco schooled his features and asked me a bit stiffly, “Let’s say we do pursue a relationship. What do you think will be our biggest obstacle?”

            “Um…I don’t know…It’s a toss-up, I guess; between the press trying to invade our lives and our past together getting in the way of our future together,” I answered.

            “I’m good at controlling the press; just feed them something you don’t mind them knowing about and they stay away from the issue you aren’t ready to discuss,” he replied.

            “And Kyara?”

            He shrugged. “I was ready to discuss her.”

            “What about our pasts?” I asked.

            “I think I can put what you did to me behind me. I deserved what you did to me; it’s only Kyara who didn’t deserve it. I know you are sorry and regret it; I saw you cry at the funeral. I think I forgive you. What about you? Can you forgive me?” he asked.

            “I already have. I forgave you a long time ago. It took me a while to forgive you completely, but I started forgiving you in sixth year. When you saved me that Easter, you were mostly forgiven. By the time the war ended, you were completely forgiven,” I answered.

            He nodded, contemplative.

            “What about you? What do you think our biggest challenge will be?” I asked, repeating his question back at him.

            “I don’t know if it’s our challenge, precisely. It’s mostly my challenge that I need to work through.” He paused and I let him get his thoughts together. “It’s Kyara. I lost her and that pain is the deepest pain I’ve ever felt. I worry that having a new baby will be setting myself up for another fall, if something goes wrong. Or even if it goes right, what if I can’t get what happened to Kyara out of my head? But I don’t want to forget her either. She will always be my first born.” There was a pause. “I worry about that sort of stuff.”

            “I’ll help you through it. If you’re feeling low, we can talk about it. I can be supportive if you want to remember her, or I can help you from going into a destructive spiral if you get too caught up on the bad things. We can do this together,” I replied.

            He nodded. That just left one serious issue, but it was a very serious one and I didn’t want to tackle it so soon after the last one. The elves served treacle tarts then and I used it as an excuse to put off the matter for a bit. Draco filled in the silence with small talk, telling me about his life these days. He liked to brew, but only in his spare time. He was a painter, traveling all over the world to do so. But what he really loved was the painting itself, not the selling them. Right now he was enraptured by hippocamps, making frequent travels to dive in the Mediterranean to get inspiration for his painting. He had a fondness for nature, because it afforded him with some of the most wonderful sites to paint.

            I nodded, happy that he wasn’t still caught up on painting the war. I’d heard many suggestions that he should paint other war heroes and additional war scenes, which was surely the route that would net him the most money, but he wasn’t interested in it for the money.

            When dessert was over and the conversation had been quiet for minutes on end, I got up my courage for the discussion to come. “Did you really want to kill yourself?” I asked, looking him in the eye.

            “Yes,” he answered sincerely.

            “Why?”

            “My whole life revolved around my father; then my father is arrested for attacking a child. Worse, he lost to a child who won’t use anything stronger than an Expelliarmus! I looked up to that wizard more than anyone else in the world. It was humiliating. Then I was brought before the Dark Lord, forced to take my father’s place, and ordered to do something against my nature. I thought death would be an easy way out of it all,” he answered.

            I nodded. I had never been there myself, but I could sympathize. “Do you still want to kill yourself?”

            He shrugged, indifferent.

            I jumped up and screamed in his face. I don’t know what I said, I just yelled. I couldn’t live in a world without him. He had no right leaving me.

            “Alright, alright. I yield!” he exclaimed, grabbing my hands as I pounded his chest for emphasis.

            “You yield!?!” I may have screamed it, but I didn’t mean to.

            “Yes. If you want me to live so badly, then I will live for you. I’ve been waiting to find something to live for,” he said, eyes shining.

            “You didn’t have anything to live for?” I asked, curious and sad at the thought of it.

            “I did for a few months; I had Kyara.” Tears started dripping down his face.

            I pulled him close and wiped the tears away. “I’m sorry.”

            He nodded.

            “Were you really going to live for her though?” I asked. “You said you only made her, so that you could have an heir and commit suicide.”

            “That was the plan up until the point I realized I was actually pregnant. I fell in love with her. I wouldn’t have left her to fend for herself. I would’ve devoted my life to making her life happy and helping her become a better person than I could ever be.” There was a sparkle in his eye as he spoke about the child he’d lost.

            “Then why did you shrug?” I asked.

            “She’s dead and you haven’t given me a new child to live for yet. If I died right now, my mother would be the only one to miss me.”

            His answer broke my heart. “I’d miss you,” I insisted.

            He smirked. “I haven’t actually fantasized about killing myself in a long time; not since my father’s suicide.”

            Lucius Malfoy had killed himself his first night in Azkaban, rather than serve his life’s sentence.

            I squeezed Draco’s hand. “If we do this, I can’t have you giving up and leaving me alone with the baby.”

            He looked into my eyes and said, “I won’t. If this all works, I’ll have too much to live for to consider it, even on my worst days.”

            He smiled and I smiled in return, engulfing him in a hug.

            He pushed me down and lowered himself onto me, and this time I didn’t stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s more, but I’m going to skip forward in time and change plot directions, glossing over how they get from here to happily married with kids. So I think it’s best to make the rest a sequel and end this story here.


	10. Note on the Sequel

The sequel is now up. It is called [The Colors of Parenting](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8568229). I hope to see you there.


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